EMPIRE OF SHADES

by Gordon Doherty

  Eriulf and Pavo stood, stunned, seeing the camp’s ruined defences, open to the night on the northern side. And then from the void came a new din, rising from the mountain slopes. Pavo’s pupils shrank to dots, seeing the blackness of night there writhe and swirl. The mountainside was awash with a host of pale faces, speeding downhill and onto the low ground, bounding through the sodden earth, mud flying up in their wake. Thousands upon thousands of them came like an army of ants towards the breach. They saw riveted iron helms, some with silver visors and ravening eyes glinting within, swishing topknots, tattooed faces and a sea of spears, swords and axes. Myriad barbarian war horns wailed as one, and the Sons of Fritigern erupted in a thundering war cry that caused the earth to shudder even more.

  Pavo, weaponless and realising the horde was about to spill inside the camp in mere heartbeats, scoured the chaos. ‘Form a front,’ he cried into the night, hoping enough soldiers might hear. Yet he saw the few clusters who had struggled to their feet in the now-ebbing waters being smashed down as the first wave of the horde trampled them. A Gothic spear streaked up and took one mud-coated Nervii under the chin, dashing the life from him in a trice. Another panicked and threw himself down onto the wall of oncoming Gothic spears for a quick end. Torches were tossed in bundles, landing on Roman tents to set those not soaked through ablaze once more.

  Pavo felt cold, numb, as the Goths swept across the camp, breaking into packs, falling upon the disorganised legions. He heard the screams and thundering feet coming for him. This is it, he realised, turning to face the knot of four Gothic warriors haring for him, led by a red-bearded savage. With no weapon, there will be no fight. It will end swiftly.

  Red-beard kicked into a leap, sweeping his longsword round towards Pavo’s chest. Pavo stared at him… then a weight like a runaway horse whacked into his side, bowling him clear.

  ‘Sword!’ Sura screamed, thrusting a spatha into his hand. ‘Up!’ he demanded next, hauling Pavo to his feet and dragging him back a few paces.

  The pair pressed up, back to back, swords level, free hands held out for balance. Pure instinct, utter trust. The red-bearded one rushed Pavo. Pavo, face set, took a slight step to the side and hammered his sword hilt into the back of the foe’s head, cracking open his skull, then rammed his blade hard into the belly of the one running in Red-beard’s wake, a spray of hot blood jetting up over his face and the enemy’s.

  He veered to face the last, just in time to see Eriulf’s sword lop off the fellow’s head, which spun in the air, the lips still moving to complete the guttural war-curse he had been midway through issuing, while the body staggered a few steps and crumpled, great gouts of dark blood spewing from the neck.

  In the moment of respite that followed, Sura swung his sword up at Eriulf’s throat. Pavo threw up his blade to block. ‘What are you doing?’ Pavo panted.

  ‘Eriulf’s men,’ Sura gasped, his face dotted with blood. ‘… they did this!’ he replied. ‘They’re in league with Fritigern. They started the assault on the heart of the camp.’

  ‘No,’ Pavo spat.

  ‘I saw them, Pavo. They tried to slay the emperor tonight. Their faces were streaked red just like the Vesi.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ Pavo growled.

  ‘I fear he is right,’ Eriulf said, neck waiting between the V of Sura’s sword and Pavo’s block. ‘Right about my people – Siward was always a secretive one – but not me. I am no traitor. I was born to a noble father and his noble blood runs in my veins. I am true to the words of my agreement with the emperor.’

  Sura sneered, refusing to lower his sword. ‘Impostor!’

  ‘Would I have sliced the head from that cur if he was my ally?’ His face suddenly contorted and he looked back at the small group of tents. ‘Runa… where is she? Siward must have her! He has challenged me before and threatened her harm.’

  Pavo’s heart turned icy cold, his head twisting to take in the carnage all across the camp.

  ‘Siward is dead,’ Sura spat.

  ‘And so will we be too,’ Eriulf cut him off with a cry, shoving him to one side to show him the fresh dozen-strong wave of Goths coming for the three. Sura pressed up with Pavo, Eriulf by Pavo’s other shoulder. ‘Mithras, hear us!’ Sura and Pavo cried, raising their swords.

  The Gothic warriors hurled spears, one thwacking down in the dirt between Sura’s legs, Pavo jinked to take his head from the path of a thrown axe. Just then, from the blackness behind the three, a faint whirring sounded, and in unison, more than half of the Goths jerked and spasmed, before sinking to their knees or falling flat forward, bodies and heads pocked with black slingshot holes which quickly spouted blood.

  Pavo, Sura and Eriulf gawped then looked behind them.

  ‘Get back!’ Herenus cried, he and the Claudia funditores there reloading their slings as many more Goths came. Backing the slingers was a hastily-gathered line of legionaries – a few hundred of them, half-armoured, many barefoot, some without their spears and in no semblance of their usual units. Big Pulcher came in just a loincloth, splattered with mud and stained with smoke, bearing a sword in each hand.

  Pavo and Sura stumbled over towards the line of comrades, but Pavo slowed when he realised Eriulf wasn’t with them. ‘Eriulf?’ he called back, seeing the Gothic reiks stagger away, back into the chaos of the camp, barging between ransacking Goths.

  ‘I must find her,’ he wailed.

  Pavo felt a lance of ice in his breast and stepped forward to join him, when Sura’s hand clasped his bicep. ‘If she’s still in there, she’s dead,’ he said firmly.

  ‘No,’ Pavo insisted, trying to shake free.

  ‘Brother,’ Sura said firmly, staring into Pavo’s eyes. ‘Eriulf stands a chance amongst that lot. You do not.’

  Pavo’s head dipped and he turned away, sinking back into the legionary line.

  ‘Plumbatae!’ Libo howled as the trio hurtled over to take shelter in the line of comrades, his good eye moon-like as he and the rest took out and hoisted darts.

  Shaking hands gave Pavo and Sura a spare shield, replete with plumbatae. Pavo felt a hot tear pick a path through the blood staining his face as they backed away pace by pace, in line with the inside of the camp’s southern perimeter, loosing plumbatae at the Gothic swell, who surged towards them but dared not rush against their semblance of order.

  Pavo’s eyes combed the camp again, seeing bodies, fire, severed heads being held aloft, countless screaming Goths with armour and beards so soaked with blood they looked black and evil in the firelight. No Runa. His heart broiled with grief and then… fury. With a rage unknown, he hurled one dart at a Goth. The missile took the warrior in the forehead, ripping his head open, cutting his wild cries of battle abruptly short.

  ‘Back, back, in step!’ Libo snapped.

  ‘Watch my good eye you bastards,’ Libo howled as arrows whizzed and battered down on Roman shields as they retreated.

  A short way back, they found themselves bolstered by the rest of the Claudia, who brought with them extra helms and spears, reinforcing those on the retreating line. But still the pack of Goths came – at least two for every Claudia man.

  ‘The camp’s overrun,’ Rectus called from a few paces behind Pavo.

  He saw that the heart of the camp was indeed swarming with other packs of Goths.

  ‘The emperor is signalling to retreat,’ Opis cried, spotting swishing Roman banners accompanying the short, shrill blasts of buccinae. The majority of the imperial forces were spilling out onto the open countryside via the fort’s eastern gate. Pavo saw the standards of the Fortenses and the Lancearii and the emperor’s labarum bobbing to join the sea of others out there on the open flat ground. Theodosius, now in his white armour but spattered with blood, was looking back over his shoulder in disbelief. A heartbeat later, The Goths flooded for the eastern gate, filling it, their pursuit only cautious because of the thick rain of arrows and slingshot that the legions already out on the open ground were casting upon them.

 
‘We can’t get out that way,’ Cornix gasped, seeing that he and the Claudia men were hemmed in at the southeastern corner. All eyes turned to the southern gate, still an option for escape. But then the Gothic pack stalking towards them would soon close off that route too. The last of the Batavian three who had enlisted with the Claudia suddenly lost his nerve and fled for the southern gate. He threw down his weapons and sped through it all, leaping over tent after tent. For a moment, it looked like he would be swift enough to reach the gate before the Goths blocked it off. He met his end at his own hand, though, when he tripped and fell hard, a wooden tent peg bursting through his eye.

  The Goths closing in on the fort’s southeastern corner exploded in a battle cry and broke into a charge.

  ‘With me,’ Libo barked. Pavo swung round to see Libo running up the inside of the earthen rampart, tearing a palisade stake free and tossing it aside then slipping outside. The rest of the Claudia followed suit, scrambling to escape their own camp, hurling the stakes back at the pursuing Goths. Just as the Claudia skidded down the rampart’s outer slope and into the earth ditch, Pavo swung round, knowing the Goths would be leaping down after them. He threw out his sword, seeing one Goth screaming, ready to leap upon him, when a cloud of arrows spat from the legions already evacuated and formed up outside the camp. The hail swooped down over Pavo’s head, three shafts hammering into the man’s chest, others striking many more down, clogging the breached palisade with Gothic corpses.

  Gasps of relief escaped from the Claudia men, but not from Pavo, for as he clambered up the ditch slope towards the flat ground of the open countryside, he felt the soil shake. He looked up to see, thundering round the southeastern outer corner of the fort, a Gothic rider, flying like a well-aimed spear, right at the straggling retreat of the emperor and his two palace legions towards the main body of the army out on the countryside. The rider hoisted a spear like a javelin and ready to throw. None were aware of the threat and not a single Lancearius shield was close enough to the emperor.

  ‘Eriulf!’ Sura gasped. ‘I knew it!’

  Pavo saw the reiks’ face streaked with tears, his teeth gritted in determination.

  Thoughts attuned, Pavo and Sura launched themselves up from the ditch, bounding forward in an attempt to block Eriulf’s charge. But they had not a hope. Eriulf thundered on past them and towards Theodosius. Pavo and Sura stumbled as they slowed, heads turning to follow Eriulf’s charge.

  Eriulf’s muscular arm tensed and he hurled the spear forward, right for the emperor.

  ‘No,’ Pavo and Sura said in cold whispers, eyes widening.

  And the spear plunged home into flesh.

  Now Pavo’s eyes grew wide as the moon. He heard nothing but the blood crashing in his ears… as he watched Runa sink to her knees. Runa… with Eriulf’s spear wedged deep in her chest. It made no sense. Her, here? Just paces from the emperor? The longsword in her hand, raised to strike? The red streak of war paint across her face?

  Deaf to the commotion all around as he stumbled numbly towards her, falling to one knee, cradling her as she stared skywards, mouth agape, blood bubbling in there. ‘Runa?’

  ‘I heard… you… that day, Pavo. At the… circus. I… love you… also.’

  He looked over her broken body, seeing the blood had soaked him and her like the red war paint. ‘But why, why this?’ he moaned, batting the sword from her cold, clutching hand.

  ‘The bond of the worthy, Pavo… is stronger than love. Stronger even than blood. It was a… thing my father never… understood. And that is why I… had to… kill him.’

  Pavo’s head shook, mouth hanging slack in shock. ‘You. It was you?’

  ‘It was always me… Pavo. I am… one of them. I led them,’ her pupils dilated and her body grew limp in his arms. With her death rattle, he was sure he heard a final word: ‘Vesiii…’

  His soul froze. He saw the moonlight shadow of the shaken Emperor Theodosius, cast across Runa’s corpse, and recalled something she had told him, back in the wild north. The Vesi strike hard, and at the highest of men.

  Eriulf panted, sliding from his horse and falling to his knees beside Pavo as only now he realised the identity of the assassin he had struck down. ‘Runa? No! No!’ His chest convulsed with sobs and he wept aloud for his sister. ‘Why, Runa? Why?’ he roared, looking from her to his own hands which had thrown the spear.

  The Fortenses and Lancearii seemed frozen in indecision. Emperor Theodosius, shaking, whispered: ‘You saved me.’ Slipping from his saddle and stepping forward, he stooped to one knee and embraced Eriulf. The Lancearii and Fortenses now bristled, drawing their blades up in case Eriulf was still a threat, but there was no need.

  ‘Domine, we must be swift!’ the Lancearii Tribunus shouted.

  Pavo saw it too: the Sons of Fritigern were now flooding from the ruined camp and onto the plain. They formed a great arc like gaping jaws, warriors clashing spears and swords on shields. The Claudia, the Fortenses and the Lancearii raced eastwards a few hundred paces to melt into the vast rectangle of already evacuated legions. Pavo heard myriad panting breaths and low, panicked words from those around him as pockets of Goths broke forward to hurl missiles or smash against the huge Roman host like angry waves crashing on a shore.

  Modares barged through the beset ranks on his black mare, Saturninus and Bacurius with him. Each was streaked with mud and battle gore. ‘Domine, we must begin a tactical retreat at once. If we delay they will encircle us. But if we can draw back a few miles, then they will relent. Their people lie unprotected in the northern camp our scouts spotted. They will not follow us too far from them.’

  ‘Aye,’ Theodosius said, his face pinching as he snatched the purple imperial labarum standard and thrust it into the air. ‘To Thessalonica, with steel in our hands and God in our hearts.’

  Despite it all, the chaos, the destruction, the campaign hamstrung before it had even begun, the swathes of legionaries erupted in a defiant cheer. Pavo was numb to it all.

  Surrounded by the corpses of the two Fortenses centuries, Fritigern watched the fray from the top of the Scupi Ridge, draped in his blue cloak, his face long. A bedlam of echoes came and went as his forces surged against then fell back from the retreating Roman army, once, twice and again. His horde would pursue, but not for long… if they heeded his orders, that was.

  ‘Alatheus and Saphrax would have been impressed,’ Hengist grunted, standing nearby him, his muscular arms folded across his bare chest. ‘Perhaps we can let the horde pursue until it is done?’

  ‘I want to teach the empire a hard lesson, Hengist, not to crush it out of existence. That was never the intention at Adrianople either. Always, always, I have wanted only harmony. The Roman state provides stability, a bulwark against the dark steppe horsemen. The empire needs to understand that it must work with us now, accept our place as masters of these parts, to return to that stability.’

  ‘But this new Augustus came to crush us,’ Hengist persisted. ‘You sent an envoy to his city and he replied with a column of steel!’

  Fritigern’s heart ached when he thought of what might have befallen his messenger… his cousin, no less. Just another slight to add to the list. He picked out the emperor’s purple banner down below in the darkness. The golden Chi-Rho on top of the standard grew dull as the Roman army melted away into the blackness and the symbolism was not lost on Fritigern. The Romans had staked their souls on the Nicene faith and denounced the Arian gospel. A rare common ground on which they might reach accord, discarded.

  ‘The whispering ones failed to strike him down, but only just,’ Hengist continued. ‘I watched them converging on the centre of the camp before they sent up the fire signal for our forces to strike.’

  ‘The whispering ones, Fritigern mused, so-called because of their secretive messages. The Vesi as they also called themselves, had exchanged messages with his camp in the last few months. Without the distraction of their assault on the emperor’s tent, the breaking of the lake dam might
well have been heard or spotted and tonight would have been impossible. ‘They did what was important.’

  ‘You think this victory will stop Theodosius from trying again?’ Hengist asked.

  Fritigern sighed. ‘If tonight’s lesson was not sharp enough, I will teach Theodosius again and again. If he boasts of crushing my armies, if he comes at me with ranks of steel, then he will be swatted away, hard. If he will open talks with me then I will talk. Valens understood that.’

  ‘But what if he refuses to fight or talk? The legions will draw back behind Thessalonica’s walls. It is one of the unbreakable cities.’

  Fritigern’s eyes narrowed. ‘I find a throat with a knife to it is often more willing to speak.’ He took his dagger out and jabbed it into the night, pointing east. ‘Tomorrow, we will send a few small warbands north into Thracia to reassert control over those lands. The rest of us will follow the legions’ retreating tracks and claim every meadow and hill of Macedonia as our own, right up to the hinterlands around Thessalonica.’

  ‘But Thessalonica lies on the coast,’ Hengist protested. ‘we cannot prevent grain from being shipped there from elsewhere.’

  ‘Good,’ Fritigern snorted. ‘They can distribute a fair share of it to us – unless they want their more breakable settlements put to the torch.’ He stabbed his dagger into the earth. ‘Macedonia will shiver, Hengist. The empire will learn its lesson.’

  ‘And what of the West? Riders bring news every day now of the Black Horde’s position, edging ever closer to Gratian’s Empire.’